


irreplaceable

by orphan_account



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Canon, dunno if it qualifies as angst, theres crying tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 06:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12451983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: [DRV3 Spoilers]The survivors reminisce.(more tags/characters will be added as it progresses)





	1. Chapter 1

From the rubble and debris, three of them emerge; covered in dust, choking on the air, how it wraps around and squeezes their lungs tightly. They're absolutely caked in dust. Where the proud garden once stood is replaced by smoldering ashes. The air is full of smog, and ashes continue to rain down, covering them, like particles of snow.

“This is it, huh?” Shuuichi chokes out bitterly, kicking at a stray rock on the ground. Maki and Himiko look at him wearily. “We won Danganronpa. Yipee.”

They give no response, only nodding in acknowledgement. Resting their shoulders on each other, prying themselves up, they walk in a horizontal line; Shuuichi in the front, Himiko and Maki sulking close behind, leaning on each other. It's just the three of them, crossing the barrier that separated fiction and reality.

 

* * *

 

Team Danganronpa gives them a house, at such a size that even Maki couldn't refuse. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a living room. It accommodates for all their needs, all in a secluded area with security, so rabid fans couldn't follow them home.

Of course, it's close to a hospital with a psychiatric ward, which Himiko suspects is what also lures them away. She also frequents it.

But Himiko isn't pleased. As soon as Maki and Shuuichi unload all their furniture and clothes from the boxes, she wails when she reaches the side of the living room, curled on top of their rug, with tiny occult patterns that remind her of horror and entrapment. Occult patterns that she wishes she could tear up, rip apart, and burn, burn in a -- ironic, she thinks bitterly -- ritual, let the ashes form someone she wishes was there, someone she could clutch and cry and sob into. But instead, Himiko glares at the circular patterns, closing her eyes as she remembers a dark room and soft singing. She clutches on something else for compensation; one of the items Team Danganronpa had allowed her to take: the hair bow that Tenko used to wear. Slumped against the wall, she sobs.

Himiko knows Shuuichi understands. Himiko knows Maki understands. They've been like that once; Maki more recently. They quickly drop everything in their hands; Maki stops lugging in a sofa, Shuuichi places a lamp near the entrance. Shuuichi gently places his hands around Himiko, and Maki softly strokes her hair. “It's fine, it's fine. Let it all out,” she croons, as if she's talking to a child. Himiko is not a child, even if she looks, feels, and acts like one. She’s been subject to too many things, only a small portion suitable for kids. She balls her hands into fists. She's not a child. She doesn't need to be doted over. And with that thought, Himiko cries even harder into Shuuichi’s shoulder.

Shuuichi is slightly crying too, Himiko realizes, as she glances up from his shoulder to view him rubbing his eyes frantically. Maki’s looking downwards, it's what she does when she tries to conceal her tears.

Himiko looks down as well. The occult patterns are still there, and she wants to stomp the hell out of them, spread the embers around until they're reduced to absolutely nothing.

“T-Tenko,” Himiko whispers, racking sobs choking her. It reminds her of the end of the third trial, where she absolutely wanted to die, where an entire chunk of her was ripped apart and destroyed, all by a single person.

If she could kill anyone, it would not be Shirogane Tsugumi, but with no hesitation, she would kill Shinguuji Korekiyo.

 

* * *

 

“There's no more milk,” Shuuichi announces, as he opens the pristine fridge. He nervously glances at the window, and looks back down, and back up again. As if someone he expected would appear. He opts for a pear instead.

“Nyeh?” Himiko asks. “Buy some more!” Shuuichi peers into the living room. Himiko’s lounged on the couch, watching old Nickelodeon shows. She shoves a handful of popcorn in her mouth, grumbling as she does so.

Himiko’s hair had grown out long and shaggy, yet she insisted to not cut it, even after Shuuichi nagged her. Weirdly enough, her roots are blonde, not black like Shuuichi and Maki’s. She reminds Shuuichi of-

“Can’t go alone. Remember? The bagger…” Shuuichi trails off, and Himiko’s face falls. She's now fidgeting with the collar of her dress -- an expensive, floral patterned garment -- which Maki helped to choose.

“Oh… yeah…” Himiko sighs, and falls backwards. Of course she remembers the bagger. After the trio had went to a nearby store for some groceries, a bagger had realized who they were. Instead of publicly announcing, or asking for a picture, they had decided to follow them home. Himiko had noticed it, of course; she sat in the back, and occasionally peered behind her every once in awhile.

Shuuichi wonders what would’ve happened if Maki didn't storm out of the car, and personally threaten to kill them.

“We should really get our groceries delivered to us.”

“Mmm.”

“Speaking of Maki, where is she?” Shuuichi thinks aloud, startling Himiko even more. She lazily gazes up at Shuuichi, with a worried look. He glances outside, and down at his slippered feet. The sun glitters and catches on shiny objects in the house. Shuuichi estimates it’s about 3 pm.

“Nyeh. I dunno. You should check out ou- her room,” Himiko corrects herself, before she absentmindedly shoves another fistful of popcorn in her mouth, and chews nonchalantly. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It’s the only thing that makes a sound, resonating in Shuuichi’s head. No, it’s not from the popcorn. Shuuichi glances at the TV, and listens to the background music being played. It’s delicate, and light, like soft piano music. He turns pale. While he’s somewhat embarrassed of comparing simple chewing and a cartoon to piano keys, he remembers something he absolutely forbade himself to think about.

Himiko quickly switches off the TV, catching on to it herself. “I'm sorry, Shuuichi,” she mumbles, as she anxiously stares at him. “Nyeh… If you cry, I'll be able to restore it with my magic. I think," she whispers.

He clutches his hand, and sweat starts to form near his hairline. Himiko notices and guiltily looks down.

“I’m gonna… go… check on Maki,” Shuuichi says, voice strained, and Himiko dips her head in response. She continues staring at the bowl of popcorn resting on her lap, and Shuuichi swears he can hear her cursing herself. He decides to quickly go upstairs.

The stairs are meticulously placed in a neat pattern, painted in elegant ivory and brown. Shuuichi makes sure to grab the rails tightly; he had once fallen, awakening on the couch with Maki calling him an idiot and Himiko pressing an ice pack near the back of his head. There’s still a little raised bump on the back of his head, which Shuuichi involuntarily touches.

When he reaches Maki’s room, he takes his time surveying the area. Maki’s door is decorated -- like his -- but barely: small glow-in-the-dark stars cover the bottom of the wood, intended to guide rather than decorate. A moon is in the top corner.

He hears light sobbing.

Shuuichi decides to knock on the door. The sobbing quickly stops, and the door slowly creaks open. He sees a sliver of her face: piercing red eyes.

It reminds him of her research lab, when she would hide behind her golden and maroon door, glaring out at him as he tries to enter, after exploring Hoshi’s research lab. He scowls and blinks back tears, something quite un-Saihara Shuuichi of him. But what would be the matter? Saihara Shuuichi is fictional, a puny, cowardly detective, only made to reel in audience ratings and viewers. Saihara Shuuichi, made only to extend a romance that was never real in the first place. Saihara Shuuichi, a nobody. Everything about him is fake, altered to meet their needs.

“... you alright?” Maki asks softly. Shuuichi glances up. Maki’s eyes are certainly red, in the irises, and the whites. She wasn’t made to be the sympathetic type, he realizes. They’re starting to become themselves again. The Ultimate Assassin was a ruse. She’s not Maki Harukawa, even if she looks exactly like her, and acts exactly like her.

“I-I’m good,” Shuuichi stutters. Maki raises an eyebrow. “I was just worried that something was wrong, b-because you didn’t come downstairs.”

Maki looks at Shuuichi, directly in his eyes. She sighs. “Come in,” she responds, flicking on the lights.

“Anyways- w-woah,” Shuuichi exclaims, staring at Maki, who shifts uncomfortably.

“What?” she glares, and reaches to grab her pigtails self consciously. Except it isn’t there; Maki’s hair is cut into a short bob, similar to Himiko’s, that reaches the bottom of her chin. Maki’s tiny infinity clip is still there. Maki blushes slightly, and pushes back a section that fell in front of her face.

“Oh… that’s why you didn’t come down,” Shuuichi realizes, and looks around Maki’s room. Several cuts of hair litter the floor; it was obviously recent. Otherwise, Maki’s room is pristine, completely clean. The bed in the corner is made (even if it's all for show; they all sleep in Himiko’s room), her desk having scrapbooks in neat piles throughout the surface.

“Anyways,” Maki says carefully. “I'm gonna organize my room a bit more. I'll make lunch later.” Maki had taken on the cooking job, she had the most experience out of all of them: Himiko simply refused to do it, and Shuuichi genuinely had no clue.

“Thanks,” Shuuichi mumbles, as he softly shuts the door behind him as he leaves. He hums a quiet tune. One a certain Akamatsu Kaede should've played.

 

* * *

 

Snip. Snip. Snip. Maki leisurely takes her time as she trims her hair. Snip. Snip. One snip is Ouma’s neck, another is Shirogane. Snip.

It was 11am when she started cutting. Snip. Quickly carried away. Snip. At first, it was a quick cut, to get rid of her split ends, but the snips still continue.

Maki knows she wasn't real, and she knows Ouma wasn't real, but the burning hatred she feels towards him is definitely real. Tears bubble to her eyes, and she snips more vigorously, as if each snip would bring someone back. Her long hair is reduced to short, choppy layers. The excess blankets her hardwood floor. Maki notes that she needs to vacuum the floors later.

Suddenly, her hair is reduced to a bob, as her cuts grow more vigorous. There’s nothing left to cut, nothing left that she wants to cut. She panics. Her breathing quickens.

“No, no, no,” Maki whispers, clutching her wrist. Her wrist. Her wrist. She glances at her scissors, and looks back at her wrist. Back and forth. Back and forth. It would be so easy to let go, so easy to escape, so easy to snip, snip into flesh, and watch it run red, watch it drip red down her arm. Her eyes, as red as the red she thinks she has seen many times, scans around, and stops at her closet.

She rips open the door and grabs a purple jacket, stowed far away in the back. There are still droplets of dried red covering the collar that Maki doesn't bother to wash. Maki grabs it and sobs into it, the material soft and smooth, despite the unsanitary conditions. She doesn't care. She's been around blood for too long (or, she thinks that she's been around blood for too long) that the maroon color doesn't quite faze her.

Maki sometimes fantasizes that he's still here, laughing, and holding her up, giving her the reassurance that she needs. But it only occurs in dreams that quickly morph into nightmares, as she’s yanked away from his grasp by the force of his coughs, dripping the same, disgustingly bright red.

“Just… just one slice, to the jugular,” Maki murmurs, reciting fake training lessons, from her fake assassin cult. “They'll die instantly. No blood on your hands.” She stares at her scissors, and gazes at her pillow, where she keeps a small dagger for protection. Security cameras outside the house only do so much. Back and forth, back and forth, until she gets a glance of her pathetic self in the mirror.

She's reduced to nothing. Almost nothing.

And so, Maki cries harder into the jacket.

She hears knocks on the door, and quickly regains her composure. She carefully folds Momota Kaito’s jacket, and throws it back in her closet.

Opening the door, Maki glances out, and almost laughs at the odd feeling of deja vu that she gets.  
______

“Doctor, doctor,” a nurse huffs. She seems out of breath, and sweat makes her hair cling to her face. It wouldn't take a detective to deduce that she had ran over.

“What?” the doctor scowls, staring at her impatiently. “What do you need?”

“Okay, so,” she takes a huge gulp of air. “One of the kids -- they woke up -- their heart monitor started responding like crazy right now. You have to see.”

“I will. Thanks,” he responds briefly, heading towards- He frowns. “Where's the room?” he calls back.

“DR-539.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #9 awakens

“Wake up,” is the first thing he hears, when he’s bathed in bright, fluorescent lights. Blinking his purple eyes wearily, he cranes his neck. It doesn’t budge. A sharp, dull pain runs down his entire body.

_ Where am I, where am I,  _ he frantically thinks, searching for any sense of recognition. He sees nobody he knows, he sees nobody who he once remembered he had associated with. He sees blank faces. He tries again to crane his neck, but to no avail, it simply won’t move the way he wants.

He –slowly, carefully– edges his eyes down, trying to focus, even if the pounding headache that it causes makes him want to scream and cry in pain. He sees miles of gauze wrapped around his limbs, his torso, making him look even frailer in comparison.  _ That  _ was why he couldn’t move. His body absolutely refused. IV tubes seem to entangle his body.

 

It’s a hospital, he realizes. The room smells of disinfectants, a sickly, sharp scent, like lemon with a rancid aftertaste. The walls are painted sterile white, like a normal hospital, but he notices giraffes and lions in a small corner.

 

He almost laughs. They put him in a child’s room. He's not a kid. 

He looks up at the ceiling, and tries to count the trials. No, he tries to count the  _ tiles;  _ he corrects himself silently. One, two, three, four, fi- He frowns. There is no five. He can’t see the five; he wasn’t there to witness the fifth tria- tile. Tile? Trial? He can’t distinguish the difference between tile and trial. Is there even any correlation?  He closes his eyes in frustration, and finds it hard to breathe. His torso is so weak, so frail _. _ He realizes it’s the same with his limbs: his thin arms, and his gangly legs. He can barely stretch, or move. He can’t comprehend what has happened to him. Had he really been utterly destroyed? Perhaps he fell down a building? Or did he get crushe-?

… That’s why.

“Wake up,” the  _ male ( _ he had just realized) doctor says more forcefully, and his headache stabs with more intensity. It makes his head splinter, and his vision turns cloudy, as if condensation had gotten into him. He ignores the voice, and looks away – not like he actually could – and stares off into the distance. The distance being the clock that ticks rhythmically behind… them. He can’t read it, but he finds solace in the orderly way it ticks. Always the same, predictable. He finds it slightly boring. So boring that his eyes start closing, as he slowly drifts into unconsciousness. The pace of the ticks are familiar, but he's not sure how he knows. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Sir,” a daintier, shakier voice replies. It’s female, and muffled and distant through his woozy haze. “He hasn’t gotten his painkillers yet.”

“Oh, right,” the male voice curses, and reaches into a locked cupboard. He carefully takes out a syringe, filled with clear liquid, which he can’t quite make out. It’s completely clear, almost like water. The male motions to the female, who carefully sanitizes his wrist, near the area where the two casts don’t quite connect.

“One, two, three,” the doctor grunts, as he stabs a syringe into his wrist, near a part that breaks out of the cast. He feels blossoming pain for a moment, and notices how warm the liquid is, that carefully dribbles out into a tissue that the nurse holds. But then it’s bandaged, wrapped neatly, and his head clears. He takes a deep breath, and gazes off wearily. He can  _ almost _ wiggle his toes. And suddenly, everything is too bright.

“Who are you?” the doctor asks. It’s interrogatory, as if he wants him to recall, without any outside help. His eyes focus on his face; the doctor is clearly frowning, etched lines on his forehead and near his eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he manages to croak out, and the doctor sighs. Gesturing to the nurse, the doctor carefully retrieves an item.

He can’t make out what it is. It’s light gray, and the handle is carefully gripped. He can’t see the back. “Try again,” the nurse urges.

Why can’t he make it out? He wonders, he wonders, staring at the suspicious object. Something tugs at him, humming:  _ you should be able to analyze it. You’re the Ultimate, _ it fizzles out, and he silently groans in anguish. Who is he? Who is he?  _ Who is he? _

The doctor carefully waves the front of the object in front of his face.

His vision blurs, and he remembers horrid, horrid sights. Ten murders (or were there more?), fifteen kids, a single mastermind, the one who orchestrated the game. He hates the mastermind. He hates whoever they were, he hates how they subject to deaths to appease themselves, he hates their intentions, he hates that stuffed animal. He attempts to tug at his purple hair, in pure frustration, but he can’t even lift a pinky. The thing injected in him – what was it? – helped the pain subside, but he can barely think without the tugs in his nerves, the pure blinding headache, the soreness of his entire body. Morphine? He assumes it’s morphine; you would need a powerful painkiller to help repair someone in his situation. He mentally shakes his head. No, he’s getting off topic. What does he remember?

A round, heavy ball, and calm, cool water with piranhas, piranhas swimming around, in tight, concealed circles. in a tropical setting? He pries his eyes away from his white sheets and stares directly at the object the doctor waves around.

It’s black. And white. And red, near the black. What is it? What is it? He hyperventilates, but it’s too hard to breathe. As if he’s being strangled. Strangulation? When has he heard of that? But the thought quickly dissolves, and he gazes away. His eyes reach the computer the nurse taps on, and robots flood his mind. Why robots?

“I-I really don’t know,” he whispers. He can’t remember, all he can think of are bees (strangely), and a checkered material. 

 

The doctor sighs. “Sure. I hope it’s not a lie.”

 

At the doctor’s last word, Ouma Kokichi takes a silent gulp of air. He closes his eyes, and smiles, almost triumphantly. Then, at the top of his lungs, he starts wailing, screaming, as if screaming would forgive all the things he had done. Ouma Kokichi himself doesn’t even know if it’s real or another lie. 

 

* * *

 

“Do you hear screaming?” Shuuichi frowns. Of course they hear it. It’s been the only thing dominating the usually quiet neighborhood, scaring away the birds that chirp happily in the morning. If Shuuichi had to guess, there was screaming for around three days, always around the afternoon. He cautiously glances outside the kitchen window. He only sees rows of budding plants that Himiko insisted they would plant. She tends to it as a sort of meditation, something therapeutic to take her mind off of… “things,” that she wouldn’t specify. Anyways, there was nothing that grabbed his shoulders and shouted immediate danger to him.

 

“Why do you care, if it doesn’t concern us? Cut the carrots,” Maki replies. She’s chopping shiitake mushrooms and bamboo shoots into thin slices, her knife making rapid  _ shinks _ as it came into contact with the wood. She hasn’t looked up at all, and she still awkwardly reaches for her hair -- which isn’t there. She quickly retracts her hand and Shuuichi looks away.

 

It’s silent for a few minutes, as Shuuichi struggles to cut the carrots as finely as Maki had. He fumbles with his tiny knife.

 

“H-help?” Himiko whimpers. Shuuichi and Maki immediately turn towards her, and they see her, holding a ladle, a good distance away from a pot. She’s hunched over, as if she had jumped back. Shuuichi looks at the pot, and almost groans, as Himiko lets out another terrified shriek.

 

“How’d you manage to cause vermicelli to boil over?” Maki sighs, and hurries over to place a lid over the pot, turning off the gas. “Yumeno, I gave you the easiest job.” Shuuichi finds it weird that Maki still calls them by their surname, even after all the time they’ve spent together. It’s not as if they’re not particularly chummy; Shuuichi suspects they’re the closest to Maki, excluding her friend from the orphanage. He doesn’t find a reason applicable. 

 

Himiko fidgets with the utensil she grasps in her hand. “Well, uh…” she ponders, dropping it in the sink, “my MP isn’t high enough to conjure a cooking spell.” She twists her fingers together, and tries to pick up the boiling pot of melted vermicelli noodles and foamy bubbles, but Maki stops her, and carries it to the sink herself. “Nyeh… it’s not high enough for anything lately,” she adds. 

 

“Do you want to switch? I could help, er, boil the noodles, and you could chop the carrots,” Shuuichi offers. He doesn’t want to anger Maki (although, he thoroughly doubts she would be furious), or insult Himiko, but he finds it safer and more time efficient if he were to do it himself.

 

“Nyeh…” Himiko responds, genuinely guilty. “If I cut myself… I'll be wasting carrots… I don't have enough MP for a healing spell, either.” Himiko purses her lips together, eyebrows furrowed. “I could just… make drinks, or whatever.”

 

He hates seeing Himiko dejected like this, ever since he walked in on her crying as she was tending to some succulents. His eyes wander off to a box of cookies, and he blurts out the first thing in his head. “No! It'll be fine! You could use one of those cookie cutters you bought!” Shuuichi suggests, and Himiko perks up, looking at him curiously. 

 

“But… those are for cookies,” Himiko states plainly. Shuuichi remembers the first time Himiko attempted to make cookies, it didn't go all that well. The fire alarm had been set off at that day, more than once. The end result was… unsatisfactory, to say the least. While Shuuichi tried to choke down the bitter, coal resembling cookies, Maki had straight up told Himiko they were terrible, resulting in her pouting for the next few days. “Plus, they're not as thin as Maki wanted.”

 

Maki jerks her head towards them when Himiko says her name. “It's fine,” she replies, taking something wrapped out of the freezer, “it doesn't really matter.”

 

Himiko squeals, “Ooh! I have enough MP to use cookie cutters!” She rummages in a drawer, and brandishes a handful. “A rabbit, a mage hat,” she pauses to inspect more, “a circle, and a star!”

 

Out of his peripheral vision, Shuuichi can see Maki stiffen at Himiko’s last word, and can feel himself doing that as well. While Himiko, unaware, rambles off, Shuuichi clutches the countertop in disarray. He’s not exactly  _ fine,  _ and he knows Himiko isn't, despite the way she denies it. But he knows, for a fact, that Maki’s simply not fine at all.

 

Kaito Momota was the glue that held him and Maki together. He was the one that made them understand each other, the one who truly, truly made him feel better after her execution, where he was forced to watch and slam the rusty metal bars in pure fury and desperation, as her hands flew to her constricting throat, a futile attempt to peel the coarse rope off, asphyxiation slowly consuming her, and the noose tightened and the music continued playing, a haunting symphony, a beautifully orchestrated piece-

 

But now they're both gone, Shuuichi silently remarks to himself. But she must miss him more than he misses him.

 

He can see Maki tightening her hands into fists -- instead of speaking up, Shuuichi supposes it's normal for her -- as she slams a block of vermicelli into another pot. She lugs the pot into the sink, amidst the other hastily placed tools. Himiko had stopped talking, for she was cutting the carrots, and the screaming had paused, so the only sound is tap water rushing into the pot. After she's done, Maki nearly throws the pot on the stove, and flicks the stove top on.

 

“Three minutes,” Maki mutters to herself, as she snatches up marinated pork from the center of the counter, along with the vegetables she sliced earlier.

 

“I-I’m learning how to play piano,” Shuuichi speaks up feebly, attempting to change the subject, and to end the silence. The screaming (from earlier) resumes, so he pauses until it dies down, and continues. “A-anyways-”

 

He’s interrupted, surprisingly, by Maki, who nearly launches herself back. “You're taking piano?” she asks, incredulous. Shuuichi nods sheepishly. “Sorry… I couldn't fathom you - because, Akamatsu… and,” for the first time, Maki seems at a loss for words, as if thinking of someone else.

 

“Yeah,” Shuuichi replies, assisting Himiko with the carrots. He notices Maki looking downwards dejectedly, and decides to try to comfort her. “Maki…” he says, carefully. “I understand what you've been through. With Kaito.”

 

Maki’s blank expression suddenly twists into a sneer, and her red eyes bore into his, as if she's contemplating killing him. Shuuichi takes a step back. “Oh,  _ you _ understand?” she asks, taking a step towards him.

 

Himiko nervously chimes in, “let's not fight… please. Right now… my MP is too low.”

 

Maki pays her no attention, and continues. Her predatory eyes flicker. “Tell me, detective-” Shuuichi flinches, and looks away, “-how do  _ you _ understand? Please, enlighten me with your empathy. Give me some evidence, detective.”

 

Shuuichi answers, “w-well, uh, Kaede-” 

 

“Uh, Kaede,” Maki mocks. “Tell me: how long have you known Akamatsu?”

 

“Maki, I seriously doubt that this will help,” Shuuichi nervously says, pulling his black baseball cap over his eyes. He had donned it again, ever since they left. “How about we just… how about-”

 

“Oh, is this helpful?” Maki hisses. “You’re a coward, Saihara. As soon as things don’t go your way, you cower, you hide, hide behind your delusions of who Akamatsu was. So tell me, detective, how does  _ Akamatsu _ ,” she spits out, “who you knew for barely a week, help you understand me?”

 

“Please, Maki,” Shuuichi pleads. “This is u-unnecessary, and, and-” He looks at Himiko for reassurance, but she’s staring down at carrots, refusing to look at him. “Please.”

 

“What did Akamatsu do? Did she hold your hand, and suddenly, you,” Maki stumbles on her words. “Suddenly, you, you fell in love with her? All you do now is cling to her. She’s not even real, Saihara. Give it up. Don’t lump me in with you. Kai- he- he isn’t fake, he isn’t like her. You don’t have the privilege of sympathizing.”

 

Shuuichi’s defense slowly wears off. “Haruma-”

 

“Don’t call me that!” Maki almost lunges at him, and Shuuichi remembers the fear, the similarity when she had done that to Kokichi. Of course, she had nearly killed him, right there, in front of every single person. “Only Kai- only he- only he can-"

 

“Oh, is Kaito now suddenly real?” Shuuichi snaps back, as a fiery, red-hot burst of anger shoots through him, bubbling away in his esophagus. Maki looks surprised. Shuuichi decides to persist. “Hypocrite. All you’ve done… in there… was run away, attach yourself to Kait-”

 

“Please!” Himiko yells. Shuuichi stops, and Maki directs her glare towards her instead, her eyes smoldering, as if burning a hole through Himiko and Shuuichi at once. Himiko is unfazed, and resumes. She crosses her arms, and stares right back at Maki. “Fighting won’t help. They’re both… nyeh… they’re both dead, alright? So is T-Tenko. Nothing can change that.” Himiko looks down again, and sniffs, as if suppressing tears, and fumbles with the knife.

 

“Three minutes,” Maki sighs, quietly resigning. She seems satisfied -- having gotten the last word -- and Shuuichi makes no attempt to take it away from her. She turns off the stove.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The screaming doesn’t seem to stop.

 

“Should I check on it?” Himiko asks. She’s slouching against the foot on the couch, picking at a plate of “springrolls” that Maki had made earlier. Shuuichi had quietly translated it to harumaki. Carrot stars are stuffed inside the rolls and scattered around the edges. Maki made hers plain, Shuuichi opted for another lunch instead, specifically, some instant ramen, and Himiko added more carrot bunnies to hers. 

 

Funny how that simple nudge started the entire argument, Himiko thinks. She always messes stuff up, always creates the worst situations. If she hadn't brought up the stupid stars, none of this would've happened, the brutal attacks between the only two friends she had left. A similar situation, she realizes. It's alike with the magic show and the seance. If she had just tried to keep quiet, to ignore it, perhaps Tenko would still be alive.

 

Thanks to her brilliant actions, Shuuichi is now locked up in his room, and Maki is sitting beside her, spacing off as she watches Doraemon.

 

Everything she tries to do to help ends up doing the opposite of what she'd intended.

 

Maki is staring ahead blankly, so Himiko waves a hand in front of her face. This quickly brings her attention. “What?” Maki snaps, her glare softening as she realizes it’s Himiko.

 

“Nyeh… pay more attention, Maki,” Himiko jokes, and she glares at her again. “Eep! Sorry! The screaming is getting really loud, so should I check on it?” Himiko sticks the remainder of the harumaki in her mouth, albeit not having an appetite. She chews slowly and deliberately.

 

Maki shrugs. “Sure, but bring someone with you.” A subtle way of implying she doesn't want to go, and an even subtler way of saying ‘bring Saihara.’ Maki languidly toys around with a fork in her hands.

 

Himiko pouts, realizing the tension between the two would never dissipate.  At least, not for a while, certainly not immediately. “Fine,” she mumbles, standing up, and dusting off her dress. “Nyeh. I'll check the mail.”

 

The living room is quite far away from the entrance, tucked behind a long row of bedrooms. As Himiko walks through the hallway, she wonders: what if Tenko were the center of the argument? Would it have been as explosive, as raw as the one about Kaito? Such things she could not consider, as Tenko was just simply there. Her only contribution to the plot was to die, die, and leave Himiko one of the broken survivors. A love interest, just to die. She didn’t deserve to live. 

 

Yet, Himiko angrily clenched her fist. If only Tenko hadn’t been real, if only  _ she  _ hadn’t been real, so she could get those stupid emotions out of her chest. Stupid, stupid, idiotic emotions that cause her to cry. How she misses her  _ stupid _ , cheery attitude, how she always seemed to wish the best for Himiko, who barely paid any attention to her; the person that was meant for her, all along, in arm’s reach. Oh, but how Tenko was ripped from her, meters away; if only Himiko had thrashed around, if only Himiko had disrupted the seance, and Tenko would be free, safe from the murderous, disgusting grip of Shinguuji.

 

Sometimes, Himiko wishes she never remembered Tenko. Sometimes, she even wishes she isn't real. Spares her the icky feelings, which Himiko is definitely uncomfortable with. But alas, she doesn’t have enough MP. 

 

Himiko reaches the wooden door, and peers out of the frosted glass, to see if any onlooker were to witness her. She sees nobody; the roads are clear, with the occasional car zipping past. Definitely too fast to see her. Nevertheless, she pulls a beanie on. The tips of her beanie is stitched in a weird fashion, almost resembling some cat ears. Its style reminds Himiko of Hoshi, whose signature beanie seemed to replicate Himiko’s current; or, rather, hers copying Hoshi’s. It’s a light pink hue, and Himiko instinctively pulls it down, to shield her eyes, as she normally does in public.

 

The mailbox is placed near the gigantic gate (which Himiko insisted they install for extra security) and is even taller when she shuffles over. Slippers are more comfortable than those ridiculous curved-toe shoes that she was forced to wear. She was offered a copy of her uniform from the show. As soon as she was home, she burned it in the fireplace.

 

Himiko unlocks the mailbox, and peeks inside. Commercials, ordinary junk mail, credit card bills. All under a fake name, of course. She pulls out all of the fliers (noting a coupon for 50% off a large pizza) and important envelopes, and walks off, hugging them tightly, to make sure none fell into her trimmed lawn, or her planted daffodils and daisies. She walks on the stone pathway to the front door. Himiko habitually pats her pockets, feeling nothing, and groans when she realizes she left her keys inside the mailbox’s keyway.

 

She sprints quickly, wanting to go back and hide inside the safety of her own home. Maki forced her to take self defense classes, resulting in her sudden bursts of adrenaline and lithe physique. As she carefully pries the keys off, she glances inside, yet again, to check.

 

Buried in the corner, an envelope she forgot to collect. Himiko carefully fishes it, and pulls it half way out, noting the smooth, black cardstock used. No wonder she didn’t see it, as it was shrouded by the sides of the mailbox. She pulls the rest of the envelope out.

 

She nearly screams.

 

Black and white, black and white, Himiko hates those two colors, hates them with an intensity, hates them when they’re sitting right next to each other, unperturbed, hates how it seems so carefree and innocent. She tears at her hair, messing up the careful placement of her beanie, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care at all, not when she rips open the envelope, shredding the previously pristine cardboard into half black and half white confetti. Not when she seethingly unfolds the piece of paper, and glances at the neatly printed words:

  
  


_ To whom it may concern, _

_ Hello, Saihara Shuuichi, Harukawa Maki, and Yumeno Himiko!  _

_ We are here to announce the revival of one of your past classmates! No Necronomicon, of course! Turns out, they were never quite dead!  _

 

Himiko quickly tears her head away, fuming. Anger overcomes her desires to immediately call for help, to immediately start crying in fear, to have Maki come over and punch someone. How  _ dare _ they joke about something so serious in a letter addressed to her? The Necronomicon is automatically associated with the third trial, the one where Himiko was truly alone, without a shoulder to lean on, without a Tenko to help cheer her up, to grin cheekily and to comfort her. The one where people blatantly accused her, despite her loyalty and devotion. Nonetheless, she swallowed her anger, instead of screaming her throat raw.

 

_ We would like you to visit them! Perhaps start a reunion, or record it! Maybe upload it online! _

_ We simply aren’t forcing you to do anything, but do remember, our checks to you can be cancelled at any possible time. _

_ They are in the hospital nearby, where you regularly get your medication. _

 

_ Thanks! _

_ Team Danganronpa :) _

 

Himiko stares in bewilderment.  _ No one was dead? _ But she saw the bodies, with her own two eyes, the bodies that were splattered or spilling out bright red. Like her hair once was, before it faded away into a light blonde-pink. She herself saw Amami laying down, clutching at nothing, a bloody sphere near him. She saw Akamatsu, Hoshi, Tojo, and… no, it simply was not possible. It wasn’t possible at all. It was fake, it was definitely fake.

 

“This is fake, this is fake, this is fake,” Himiko whispers, a calming mantra, as it loudens into a regular volume. “This is fake. This is fake. This isn’t real; this was never real, this is all just a trick, a gimmick; this is fake.”

 

But, there  _ was  _ a catch, as with everything the slimy  _ Danganronpa  _ executives had done. Blackmail? She reluctantly doubts it’s a hoax, as it has their real names, sent to their real address. They live off the money, in no way was Himiko, or anyone, really, comfortable enough to get a job, to interact with shitty, obsessive fans who would prod her with personal questions.

 

“This is fake. This is fake, this is fake, this is fake,” Himiko continues, rambling even, as the paper shakes in her hands. She resists the urge to rip it all apart, to let the shreds fly off, fly off to a place where it would get burned, burned to a crisp, burned to ashes, the smell so suffocating, like the explosions, like the crumbling walls of the academy-

 

“Yumeno?” Maki yells, from inside the house. She seems to realize Himiko’s gone, but Himiko pays no attention, only trembling as she stares at the white sheet of paper, the smiley face dangerous and threatening. She barely has enough energy to scream, to call out, so she sits, cross legged, peering at the paper every so often.

 

When Maki arrives, looking frantic, and, to her dismay, a knife tightly gripped in her hand, Himiko simply thrusts the paper at her. She sees Shuuichi quickly running down the stairs.

 

Himiko looks down, at the stones snugly placed into the ground, and traces the edges with her finger.

 

“This is fake,” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah here it is the number two the bing bang boom
> 
> is this ooc? im not sure i barely read over this
> 
> as stated before, feedback? hell yeah

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo? this is the first fanfic ive officially posted (got like 10 more kaimakis in the bag) and uhhh i barely revised this
> 
> feedback would be greatly appreciated! : ) weed


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